The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,72

styled, his jawline was square and strong, his smile was restrained but warm. Women found him attractive, and he knew it.

“You’re blocking the light,” she said.

He grasped the back of an empty chair. “May I?”

Before Natalie could object, he pulled the chair away from the table and settled himself proprietarily into it. And there it was, she thought. All the preparation, all the training—and now he sat before her, the one they wanted, the one who would place her in the hands of Saladin. All at once she realized her heart was tolling like an iron bell. Her discomfort must have been apparent, because he placed a hand on the sleeve of her modest silk blouse. Met by her reproachful glare, he hastily removed it.

“Forgive me. I don’t want you to be nervous.”

But she wasn’t nervous, she told herself. And why should she be? She was in her usual café across the street from her apartment. She was a respected member of the community, a healer who cared for the residents of the cités and spoke to them in their native language, though with a distinct Palestinian accent. She was Dr. Leila Hadawi, graduate of the Université Paris-Sud, fully accredited and licensed to practice medicine by the government of France. She was Leila from Sumayriyya, Leila who loved Ziad. And the handsome creature who had just intruded on her Sunday-morning coffee, who had dared to touch the hem of her sleeve, was of no consequence.

“I’m sorry,” she said, folding her newspaper absently, “but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jalal,” he repeated. “Jalal Nasser.”

“Jalal from London?”

“Yes.”

“And you say we’ve met before?”

“Briefly.”

“That would explain why I don’t remember you.”

“It might.”

“And where exactly did we meet?”

“It was in the Place de la République, two months ago. Or maybe it was three. There was a demonstration against—”

“I remember it.” She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “But I don’t remember you.”

“We spoke afterward. I told you that I admired your passion and commitment to the issue of Palestine. I said I wanted to discuss it with you further. I wrote down my contact information on the back of a leaflet and gave it to you.”

“If you say so.” Feigning boredom, she gazed into the street. “Do you use this tired approach on all the women you see sitting alone in cafés?”

“Are you accusing me of making this entire thing up?”

“I might be.”

“How did I know you were at the demonstration in the Place de la République if I wasn’t there?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“I know you were there,” he said, “because I was there, too.”

“So you say.”

He flagged down the waiter and ordered a café crème. Natalie turned her head and smiled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Your French is atrocious.”

“I live in London.”

“We’ve established that.”

“I’m a student at King’s College,” he explained.

“Aren’t you a bit old to still be a student?”

“My father tells me the same thing.”

“Your father sounds like a wise man. Does he live in London, too?”

“Amman.” He fell silent as the waiter placed a coffee before him. Then, casually, he asked, “Your mother is from Jordan, is she not?”

This time, the silence was Leila’s. It was the silence of suspicion, the silence of an exile. “How do you know my mother is from Jordan?” she asked at last.

“You told me.”

“When?”

“After the demonstration, of course. You told me your mother’s family lived in Nablus. You said they fled to Jordan and were forced to live in the refugee camp at Zarqa. I know this camp, by the way. I have many friends from this camp. I used to pray in the mosque there. Do you know the mosque in Zarqa camp?”

“Are you referring to the al-Falah Mosque?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“I know it well,” she said. “But I’m quite certain I never mentioned any of this to you.”

“How could I know about your mother if you didn’t tell me?”

Again, she was silent.

“You also told me about your father.”

“Not possible.”

He ignored her objection. “He wasn’t from Nablus like your mother. He was from the Western Galilee.” He paused, then added, “From Sumayriyya.”

Her expression darkened and she engaged in a series of tiny gestures that interrogators refer to as displacement activity. She adjusted her hijab, she tapped a nail against the rim of her coffee cup, she glanced nervously around the quiet Sunday street—anywhere but into the face of the man seated on the other side of the table, the man who would place her in the hands of Saladin.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said finally, “but I’ve